


Angelica's World

by Madtom_Publius



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Character Death Mentioned But Not Shown, Gen, Mental Instability, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madtom_Publius/pseuds/Madtom_Publius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the fatal aftermath of her husband's duel, Eliza tries to pick up the pieces of her daughter</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angelica's World

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content

Eliza had hurried to the room as soon as she heard the wail, but once she reached the room she could not be sure whether the cry had come from her sister or her daughter, for both Angelicas with their red eyes and creased faces were visibly upset. She wrapped her arms around her oldest girl, petting her hair and kissing her forehead softly as she had so many times before to calm her restless mind. Angelica fidgeted at first, trying to escape the embrace as if she did not recognize her own mother’s image, but the soothing nothings in her ear pacified the agitation.

 

The girl’s aunt wiped the corner of her eye and looked at the mess her niece had wrecked upon the study. “I didn’t know how to stop her from disturbing these, Betsey,” she admitted, the flush in her cheeks deepening. The girl, whose violet eyes were looking wistfully at her surroundings as though she had entered the room for the first time, said nothing in her defense. “I told her tenderly she shouldn’t be in his study, but she doesn’t even recognize me! Betsey, I didn’t know what to do, she started screaming about nonsense.”

 

“Well, it’s all over now,” Eliza murmured, scanning at the letters and books carefully laid out across the floor, in patterns that made no sense to anyone but the poor mind of her daughter. Unlocking her embrace, she caressed Angelica’s cheek. “Are you all right, my darling? What were you looking for in here?”

 

“People write letters because they want to live forever, you know,” said Angelica, pulling away from her mother’s touch before stepping up on her bare toes and gliding about the room, moving between the papers and volumes she had carefully decorated. “That’s what I’ve always told Philip. Men want to live forever, so they put a little piece of their souls in everything they write. That’s what I told Philip. He’s dead, you know. Philip is.”

 

Her aunt covered her face and Eliza tried to steady herself from the cruel onslaught of emotions that had refused to stop their assault for what seemed like years now. She didn’t cry or scream, but wrapped her shaking hands around her arms to keep her wall of fortitude from crumbling. “Yes,” she said, “I know.”

 

Angelica didn’t look up from her world. “They say Philip’s dead and cold now. Cold maybe, in the ground, but I don’t know if I believe he’s dead. I have letters from him. He’s very kind to me, says I’m his favorite sister. There’s a new Philip now, you know. I don’t like this one as much, he cries a lot. Everyone cries a lot now. Papa cried a lot, but he doesn’t anymore. He’s dead now, too. He’s cold like Philip.”

 

“Stop it, Angelica,” cried her aunt, the red in her face burning.

 

“It’s not her fault,” said Eliza with trembling breath. “She’s not herself when she’s like this. Darling, we should go to your room. Are you not tired?”

 

“He was shot dead. Shot dead in a duel. Philip was too, you know. Both shot, and there was a lot of blood. I remember that. I thought it was silly; doctors take out so much blood why can they not just put it back in? Maybe they took too much out. But is he really dead? Look at all these letters. Papa liked to write. Sometimes he wrote too much. It got him in trouble, didn’t it? Maybe men shouldn’t write so much politics. It makes men unhappy, and men kill each other when they’re unhappy. Papa should have written more poetry; that made him happy. Don’t you remember, Mama? He also likes when I play the pianoforte. Perhaps I should play more. Or maybe I should write more. When you write letters, you don’t really die. When I open a book it doesn’t bleed.” She reached out and caressed her mother’s face. “It doesn’t bleed like Papa did, does it, Mama?”

 

“Angelica, stop!” screamed Angelica Church, wiping her face frantically and choking back a sob.

 

A brunet head peeped through the door before Eliza’s oldest son took a step inside. “Mother?” asked Alexander, looking over briefly to his crying aunt and then to his sister who at the sudden intrusion now stared at him coldly.

 

His mother’s pretty, tear-worn face looked sadly at what had become of her beloved daughter, holding her hands and kissing her forehead once more before turning her in the direction of the girl’s brother. “Go for a walk with Alexander while I clean things up. Would you pick me some flowers, dear? I think flowers would look lovely in the parlor, and you have such a good eye for color.”

 

Angelica tilted her head, but stepped toward the door regardless, throwing her arms around her brother’s shoulders. “Yes, Alexander and I will walk. Alexander. We replaced Philip with a new Philip, and we have another Alexander.”

 

Once her children were gone, Eliza released a shaking breath and brought her hand to her forehead to steady the torrent of pain threatening to break her resolve. The books and letters still lay strewn about, and she knelt down to try and put them in some resemblance of order. But once she looked at the handwriting, a fresh wave of anguish flooded through her veins and the reserve of tears she felt she had depleted began falling. Her sister wrapped her arms around her, hugging her frame tightly. “We can send her to her Grandpapa for a while,” Angelica suggested, brushing her fingers through the dark hair.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eliza muttered with more emotion than she meant to. “She’s my daughter, she needs her mother. And I need them all here. I won’t let this break apart.” She tried wiping at her eyes frantically, but the tears would not stop. “Sometimes I think it was cruel for God to separate us. What sin was so terrible that He snatched Alexander in atonement? My Hamilton confessed to his wrongs, asked forgiveness for his…his adultery. Then I wished for Him to take me as well.”

 

“Don’t speak so, Betsey,” Angelica protested, hugging her sister tighter. “To lose poor Philip, and our sweet sister, and Mama, and now our dear Amiable, I do not think my poor heart could stand having you ripped from us.”

 

“It was a moment of mortal weakness,” offered Eliza, deflating slightly. “I know He works in mysterious ways. But I did not think I could…. I thought I was with child.”

 

Angelica gasped. “Betsey! Did…Did you lose…?”

 

Her younger sister shook her head, demurring. “My cycle was late, and I had just buried my Hamilton, and – Oh Angelica, I didn’t know what to do! I was scared. We have so little money, and my children are still not yet adults. How could I not despair about bringing another one into this cruel world? But then, I thought, this was a part of Alexander that would live through this. This would be something to remember him, the last few months we had together. I was secretly hopeful, almost excited. But then my cycle came. I don’t know what to feel. Relieved. Hopeless.” She reached down and picked up one of the letters, perhaps secretly wishing there might be some truth in her daughter’s madness.

 

Angelica kissed her sister’s cheek and simply held her, not knowing despite her worldly knowledge how to make this better.


End file.
